Chloe Does Yale

by Natalie Krinsky

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A sparkling first novel by Natalie Krinsky, the witty, provocative sex columnist for the Yale Daily News . Chloe Carrington is a typical Yale student, except that along with toiling through the usual grind of coursework, she pens a notorious and much-dished-over sex column for the campus newspaper. This touch of fame has wrought havoc on her social and love life, turning it literally into an open book. Chloe doesn't help matters much; she likes to share and can't resist divulging the gory details of her most recent date (or lack thereof) in her column, baring her soul for all to see. Like her friends, she dreams of hooking up with Mr. Right, at least for a little while--but that proves even more arduous than participating in Yale's notorious "shopping" session (a two-week period in which students are encouraged to take as many classes as possible, in order to decide what courses to enroll in for that semester). As Chloe probes the campus hot spots, we get a peek at just what goes on behind the Ivy League's dormitory doors--from drinking at Toad's to "Exotic Erotic" (Yale's answer to a Hugh Hefner'style Playboy party, complete with coeds in skimpy bikinis). Teeming with exuberance and late-night shenanigans, Natalie Krinsky's novel is filled with humor and candor about typical college situations both inside and outside the dorm room.

Release date: March 2, 2005

Publisher: Hachette Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

1

EXOTIC EROTIC IS YALE’S answer to Hugh Hefner’s Valentine’s Day party. Granted, EE, as it is called, takes place in September, while Hugh’s bash appropriately occurs in mid-February. Hugh Hefner’s party is filled with well-endowed scantily clad Playboy Bunnies, while Exotic Erotic is populated by well-read scantily clad undergrads.

Exotic Erotic is also the best party at Yale. Its motto: The less you wear, the lower the fare.

Being only slightly more modest than cheap, I shelled out the requisite three dollars at the door. I could have avoided the fee by showing the freshman manning the entrance my left breast, but to his great disappointment I passed up this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Why he asked to see my left breast is beyond me. Of course, now I’m wondering if there is anything wrong with the right one . . .

Once inside, it occurs to me, as it does every year, that being nearly naked in front of four thousand other people who are nearly naked is quite an interesting, if not jarring, experience. It’s the kind of experience that takes a generous amount of Jack (as in Daniel’s) or Johnnie (as in Walker) to justify. Neither Jack nor Johnnie has made an appearance in my night quite yet.

I look down at my outfit. No bubble-wrap bra here (unlike the two girls I see ahead of me), just a pink string bikini and four-inch heels. Every time I move, the bikini bottoms wedge themselves a little higher, and I am stuck trying to extract them from their chosen crevice. As if this effort, combined with sucking in my stomach to hide the freshman-sophomore-and-junior fifteen doesn’t have me sufficiently occupied, when I check over my shoulder to make sure that no one is witnessing this spectacle, I come face-to-face with the entire men’s lacrosse team.

Uh-oh.

They are a rather unforgiving bunch, as I found out following a botched hookup with the star goalie, and in typical fashion begin chanting my name, graciously sending over a willing delegate with the mission (impossible) of removing my top. All of a sudden, Exotic Erotic has become a twisted game of capture the flag. My face is hot and I am certain that it has turned the same bright shade as my bikini.

Attractive.

Mortified, I quickly move into the crowd to avoid said delegate. All of a sudden I feel like a finalist at the Special Olympics version of a Miss America Pageant. And I have totally abandoned sucking in; escaping the clutches of an entire varsity team is enough of a workout.

Once I’m out of sight, I step up onto a bench in the Timothy Dwight courtyard, the site of this annual bash, muttering profanities as I frantically scan the crowd for the friends I came with. Unfortunately they are nowhere to be found among the sea of heads bopping to Biggie Smalls. The scene is sort of humorous, actually, and I wish I were in better spirits to enjoy it, as all the naked kids from privileged Greenwich are shakin’ what their mama gave them to the hardcore sounds of gangsta rap. Granted, I’m no exception. My Upper East Side roots mean I’m not exactly down with the ’hood either. Tired of searching and rather disheartened, I climb down from my post on the courtyard bench and resign myself to smoking a cigarette in the hopes that something interesting will happen.

Lung cancer, skin cancer, wrinkles—I don’t care. I am from the shrinking group that continues to believe that smoking is sexy. Especially in a pink string bikini (wedgie or no wedgie).

As I inhale my future demise, taking in my surroundings, I am realizing that Yalies shouldn’t be naked. That’s what the University of Miami is for. We are smart. Smart people are not attractive people. Stephen Hawking—smart, not attractive. Einstein, same deal.

Except that I hear he was a freak.

All these Nietzsche-reading girls should have picked up some Nair before the party. Smack in front of me, there’s a hairy cellulite-dimpled junior in a scanty Cleopatra costume. Even back in the day, Cleopatra knew where it was at—queens don’t have armpit hair.

I need a drink. Where are my drunken friends when I need them?

Just as this thought passes through my mind, I look up to find, sauntering toward me, two handsome young drunks who have lived on the floor below me for three years running—Activist Adam and Hot Rob.

Women at Yale distinguish various guys by nicknames: Just-an-Idiot Justin, Pretty Jim, Flaming Philip, Biting Brandon, El Señor Pequeño Rick . . . the list goes on. It’s how we tell one Mike from another. There is a monumental difference between Magic Mike (the first guy I dated at Yale) and Mole Mike (whose affliction was discovered during an impromptu game of strip poker).

In any event, Activist Adam and Hot Rob are making their way toward me. They are the kind of guys who get more action than G.I. Joe in the eighties, but because I have lived with them since we were freshmen, I refuse to enlist with their troops. A feat that is not shared by most of my friends—or of the female population at Yale, for that matter.

Activist Adam is the kind of kid who grew up in the trenches of prep school, specifically Hotchkiss, the crowning jewel of them all. His parents are über-wealthy, with houses in Vail, Southampton, and Palm Springs. Yet after a semester spent at the Mountain School (a place where rich kids milk cows), he has turned to Greenpeace and “fighting the man” to ease his insurmountable guilt. Ask Activist Adam what his father does, and he will tell you he is an artist. Actually Adam’s dad is an investment banker who doodles on a legal pad during meetings and is a member of the board of the Museum of Modern Art. Adam himself specializes in the fine art of bullshit, a skill that comes in handy both in his major (English) and minor (Lying to Women). He will participate in any protest as long as it involves a sit-in. Showers only occasionally so as not to waste water or soap—both of which, according to Activist Adam, we should use sparingly. He can be forgiven only because of the adorable blond curls that swing over his green eyes (he cuts his own hair), his broad shoulders, and of course, his irresistible charm.

Hot Rob is of a different breed, and without a doubt is the most attractive man I have ever met in my life. He is tall and dark-haired, with piercing blue eyes and a dimple on each perfectly tanned cheek. When he introduced himself to me freshman year, he extended his hand and in an even voice said, “Hi, I’m Rob. I’m from Baltimore. We have the highest incidence of gonorrhea per capita in the United States.”

Though I have yet to confirm that statistic, Hot Rob himself has a good chance of contracting the disease. He is a soccer player and an equal opportunity employer. By that, I mean that all it takes is a vagina and a pulse (not necessarily in that order) for him to try to get a woman into bed. Most people think that Hot Rob gets only the most attractive girls. This is a myth; he doesn’t discriminate.

As the two come into view, I burst out laughing. Activist Adam has only a fig leaf covering his (I’ve heard) sizable member, while Hot Rob is wearing a zebra-print thong and a blue wig cut into a blunt bob. He looks like a Mod Squad drag queen.

“Hey, guys,” I say, suppressing my giggles.

The two of them grin at me as if they’re up to something and nod their hellos as Activist Adam hands me a flask full of a mysterious concoction. I take a sip to test it out, and when it doesn’t make me gag, I begin imbibing like Michael Jordan in a Gatorade commercial.

Life’s a sport. Drink it up.

Soon, if I’m lucky, I won’t be able to see straight, and I will be convinced that this pink string bikini was actually a good idea.

“Chlo,” Hot Rob says, “you must love this party. It’s like sex central. This is your domain.”

Hot Rob is referring to the column I write weekly for the Yale Daily News. It’s called “Sex and the (Elm) City,” New Haven being the (Elm) city. And sex being the most hotly pursued commodity on college campuses nationwide.

Activist Adam sniffs under his arm and makes a face.

“Do you want to play chuck, fuck, or marry?” he asks. This has been our favorite pastime since we were card-carrying freshmen. We choose three people from the crowd and we have to chuck one, fuck one, and marry another. Exotic Erotic is an ideal setting for this game; it’s when everyone lets it all hang out and the naked truth is revealed—which is not necessarily a good thing. Personally, I’d rather have my truth masked in a flattering pair of jeans.

“Definitely,” I say.

I choose the first three. A swimmer dressed only in a swim cap who looks like she could pummel the two boys, Hulk Hogan style. Second, Hot Rob’s ex-girlfriend—to make things interesting. She’s a nameless blond from California who has the personality of a dish towel, but according to Rob, she fucks like a banshee. I look around. Who is going to be my third?

“Ahh! I got it!” I say as I lay my eyes upon my final choice. “Breastopalous.”

Breastopalous has the biggest breasts in the world. Well, in our insular Yale world. Hence her nickname. Hot Rob and Activist Adam each give her the fuck rating—you can’t compete with breasts the size of your head. Or a small farming town in North Dakota.

All of a sudden my friend Cara comes barreling toward me, grabs my hand, and pulls me away from the boys. “Chloeeee!” she screeches, her Texas drawl cutting through the crowd.

“Maxwell Lyons wants to meet you,” she exclaims breathlessly.

“Who?” I reply. I have no idea who Maxwell Lyons is.

“Maxwell Lyons,” she says, sounding annoyed. “You know, Fifty Most Beautiful People Maxwell Lyons.”

“Fifty Most Beautiful People Maxwell Lyons?” I repeat slowly.

Hmmm. Long adjective.

The Rumpus, Yale’s monthly humor magazine (and I use the term humor liberally), has the annual tradition of choosing the fifty most attractive undergrads and publishing an issue devoted solely to making the rest of the student population feel bad about themselves. Apparently Maxwell Lyons is pretty.

Mazel tov, Maxwell.

“You know him. Senior in Branford,” Cara continues, more exasperated than before. “He used to date Breanne.”

I look at her blankly. I am still clueless as to why this stranger with a name that makes him sound as if he should be on Days of Our Lives has any interest in conversing with me. At this point, I am far more intrigued by the thought of a pepperoni slice and a vanilla milk shake from Yorkside Pizza.

“How did my name come up, and why on earth does he want to meet me?” I ask.

“Well,” says Cara dramatically, and she begins speaking a mile a minute, her words spilling over one another. “See, we were standing over there next to the DJ talking about superstar dick and then he said—”

“Cara,” I say, interrupting here, “what is superstar dick?”

“It’s when you find someone, like, only decently attractive but because they’re famous they’re, like, really hot, and you want to hook up with them. You know, like Adam Sandler. Or that fat guy with the mustache from ’N Sync.”

For someone with a GPA higher than my waist size, Cara sounds like a complete idiot when she’s been drinking. I’m not quite understanding where this speech is going, but I let her continue. Because I’m polite like that.

“So anyway, we were talking about superstar dick, and then your name came up, because of the column and everything, and well, Max was saying that he thought you were cute but made even hotter because you’re sort of like a celebrity around here.”

I am trying to process all of this. Does this Max guy think I’m attractive? I have the sneaking suspicion that Cara just insulted me.

“So what you’re saying,” I begin slowly, “is that he wants to hook up with me because I’m a Yale B-list celebrity.” (Only B-list because I am merely a sex columnist, not in movies or the daughter of a governor or a president. Or a billionaire.)

“No!” she exclaims. “Will you just meet him?” Without waiting for my response she pulls me toward this nonintriguing character.

I am always fascinated by the way people behave when they meet someone that they are being set up with. Most people, like me, pretend that they don’t have the faintest idea of what’s going on. I decide that this will be my Maxwell Lyons tactic. Although, as I am later to discover, he really never does have the faintest idea of what’s going on.

Cara and I link arms and saunter (or at least try our best to saunter in four-inch heels on grass) over to Maxwell, who is still standing near the DJ booth surrounded by a group of guys, all quite average looking in comparison to him.

All of a sudden his superstar genitalia theory seems pretty unimportant.

Cara, unfazed as usual, pushes through the guys and heads straight toward Maxwell. We are now standing smack in the middle of the circle the guys have formed, like two helpless lambs among lions.

“Max!” Cara is screeching again. “Do you know my friend Chloe?” she says, turning toward me.

He smiles.

All I can think about is how badly I have to pick my wedgie.

“Hi. It’s nice to meet you,” Max says. “I read your column every week. It’s really funny.”

“Thanks,” I reply with a half-smile.

Wow, I am smooth. It’s no wonder that I write a dating and relationships column each week. I’m quite the guru.

About three hours later, I find myself sitting in Max’s living room. He lives in a house on Lynwood Avenue with six other guys, plus a middle-aged man who rents out the basement and brings home hookers on the weekend, but is a “really cool guy.”

Needless to say, the place is filthy; beer cans litter the floor, and every once in a while I detect rustling noises emanating from the walls. When I inquire as to their origin, Max assures me that it’s only a family of mice that also live in the house.

“No big deal,” he says.

Phew. I was nervous it was something serious. Good thing it’s only rodents.

The two of us are sitting in his crack den of a living room staring at one another. No one really has anything interesting to say, as we’ve already exhausted the “what’s your major?” and “where are you from?” conversations.

We both know we’re going to hook up. It’s inevitable. Why would I be here otherwise? Why am I here? Do I really want to be doing this? It’s three in the morning. I could be sleeping right now. Christ, I could be knitting myself a sweater. I am nowhere near drunk enough for this.

The funny thing about meeting someone at a party and going home with him/her is that all along it seems like a stellar idea. After all, Max is considered attractive by the general Yale population, and I’m sure kissing him would be fun at first, but then there come all the other questions that follow the initial lip-on-lip contact. Am I going to see him again? Well, of course I’m going to see him again, but is he going to speak with me again? Does he want to date me? What do I know about him? How far am I willing to go with this person? How far will he try to go with me?

Actually, scratch that last question—I know exactly what’s on his mind. You see, I have a theory about men at Yale. Twenty percent of them are gay; that leaves eighty percent available to the female population. So far the numbers seem good, right? Wrong. From there, ten percent are involved in fulfilling long-term relationships that are not with me. Thirty percent have little clue as to how to interact with women, so they forgo the trouble. They interact with books. The remaining forty percent have gotten laid a few times and are actively pursuing the next time. I bet Maxwell falls into that last forty, mostly because he’s not gay.

“Do you want a tour of the house?” Max’s voice snaps me out of my overanalyzing.

“Sure, that would be great,” I respond.

As he begins to show me around, I ask him a slew of questions that lead me to believe he is not a rapist. This is positive, so I revert to the weather. I have a way of making typical weather conversation very funny and interesting for everyone involved. (This is of course a lie.)

Finally he concludes the tour in his bedroom.

“And this is my room,” he announces proudly. As if he just led me into the Taj Mahal. It’s your typical college-male room. Computer. Navy blue sheets and a plaid cover. Pile of dirty laundry in the corner. Maxim magazines strewn here and there, and a few Playboys, which he casually kicks under the bed and out of view. A Miles Davis poster.

Max sits on the bed and I begin exploring, secretly looking for evidence of a girlfriend back home/at another school among the various pictures and books that line his shelves. I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I am wearing only a pink bikini.

He gets up and walks toward me. He is really cute.

“Wow,” I say, scrutinizing his bookshelf and stalling, “have you read The Two Koreas?”

“Yes. But do you know what I’d rather do than talk about The Two Koreas?” he asks sweetly.

That’s a line if ever I heard one. And I can think of at least three things he would rather do.

“What?” I ask coyly, playing along and tilting my head to the side. I can’t decide if this is cute or if I just look like I’m trying to get water out of my ear.

And without a word, he leans in and kisses me. It’s good. He’s a goooood kisser. For just a moment I lose myself in it.

Even my mind is giving a little sigh.

But the moment of enjoyment is fleeting and my mind begins racing again. The good kiss is lost and now he’s doing something very odd with his tongue. I hate it when men kiss as if they are having intercourse with their mouths. They make their tongue erect and move it in and out of your mouth like a power tool. Maxwell has suddenly developed a severe case of Black & Decker. I try to pull back to make it stop, but he persists.

The hookup progresses rather quickly, as we both started out half naked courtesy of the good folks on the EE planning committee. (I have to remember to write them a thank-you note.) This is when things get tricky; it’s the big bad hookup decision. Am I going to let this relatively complete stranger see me naked? Hooking up with college guys is like playing a sordid game of cat and mouse. They are after the mouse, and you need to hold them off as best you can. I am fending Maxwell off like a warrior princess. Hand moves to the bikini bottoms. Whop! I smack it away. He tries the left hand—tricky. Whop! I got that one too.

And then, in an unprecedented move, Maxwell gets off the bed and gets completely naked. This is unheard of! I have no reaction. I look at naked Maxwell and think of my next move. How do I extract myself from this situation? Suddenly, horror of horrors, I realize that Maxwell has no hair down there. Maxwell’s somewhat sizable Maxwell is shaven clean. Bald eagle. He’s got nothing. What possesses a guy to shave below the belt is one of life’s great mysteries, rivaled only by the fact that Michael Jackson has children of his own. Maxwell has thrown me two curveballs (pun intended).

As Maxwell climbs back into bed, looking rather pleased with himself, I assess my next move. Who knew hooking up was so strategic? But back to the question, or rather penis, at hand. What am I supposed to do here? I am at a loss. I am supposed to be the Charles in Charge of sex advice, and I feel about as out of place as Tammy Faye Bakker at a Snoop Dogg concert. I don’t like this guy. I mean, I don’t think I like this guy. So far the only information I have gathered is that he’s from Southern California (exact location unknown) and is a political science major. He has really nice brown eyes and no hair on his balls. I guess the no-hair part is a clue about something, but about what, I am not exactly certain. How does he expect me to react to this move? Sleep with him? And not that I don’t like sex, because believe me—I mean, BELIEVE me—I like sex as much as the next girl. And so what if I write about doing it—I’m merely an observer, a commentator on human (or maybe even subhuman) behavior. I don’t know more or less than anyone else.

“Uh, are you okay?” Maxwell is looking at me. This stream-of-consciousness stuff takes up a lot of time.

“Oh. Um. Yeah. Me? I’m great. Sorry, just, you know, a little ummm—distracted! Yes, I’m distrac. . .